In the quest for meaning poets ultimately wrestle with the question of the existence of the divine, of the actuality of godly power, or of the complete lack thereof. For all these ethereal ponderings, Walt Whitman takes an entirely different tack than fellow poets. Though at times he denounces or mocks the God they view as distant or as a lover, he never fully disavows deity altogether. Ultimately, Whitman is not in pursuit of the holy, but of a larger significance outside of himself. Through his own literary style, Whitman seeks out a sense of self and belonging apart from the Christian God in his American culture, instead turning to the beauty of both the singularity and collectivity of humanity and the physical body. Though he does blaspheme in the traditional sense, writing irreverently if not mockingly about God, he remains steadfast in worshipping wisdom. Walt Whitman’s original faith in humanity is boundless and encouraging, yet as life wears on, he becomes entrapped by the fetters of his own religious beliefs in the body, preventing him from forever remaining the all-encompassing poet.
Walt Whitman, the omniscient bard, at first is not this pathetic figure whose iron beliefs were refined by the fires of tragedy. At first in “Song of Myself” and in his 1855 introduction to Leaves of Grass, Whitman overlooks the divine as a cocky man twisted up in his own arrogance and in the revelry of the body. Humans, for young Whitman, are godly, beautiful creatures full of life and energy, and reign unmatched, declaring that “We affirm that there can be unnumbered Supremes, and that one does not countervail another” (Whitman 14). For him, each person is a god; each is his or her own master and alone is able to set limitations and craft boundaries. Whitman is bound to himself as his own physical god just as all people are also bound to their physical bodies as Whitman’s gods on Earth, an idea best captured by Whitman when he writes “In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass” (Whitman 85). With this mentality that all mankind is pure and perfect, it is easy to understand how the optimistic Whitman would later declare “every atom belonging to me just as good belongs to you” and how “our rendezvous is fitly appointed…. God will be there and wait till we come” (Whitman 27, 82). Not only does Whitman defile the traditional God by implying He will personally wait on Whitman and his love affairs, but he does so in a brash, arrogant manner. Whitman has no restraint, cares solely for the magnificence and omnipotence of humanity, and later in his life, he is shattered, since the great poet is eventually destroyed by the ideals he holds most dear.
The epitome of Whitman’s spiritual connection with the physical body is in “I Sing the Body Electric” in which he exults the human form in every detail. The body is a source of art, majesty, and meaning in the eyes of Whitman. He appraises and values all, from “the love of the body of man or woman that balks” and “the wrestle of wrestlers” to “the swimmer naked in the swimming-bath” (Whitman 251). Each is attractive, part of a larger sexual electric energy belonging to Whitman and to his experience of mankind. Whitman worships this energy, feeds upon it, and basks in the beauty of this belief for as long as his youth persists. He further extends this metaphor by calling a woman “a divine nimbus” who is the “gates of the body” and the “gates of the soul” (Whitman 253-4). Women become a force beyond their physical selves in Whitman’s eyes, transforming into the goddesses he believes them to be. Likewise, men themselves take the highest form of adoration from Whitman, as he calls them “the wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost” before concluding that “the man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred” (Whitman 254). The sexual tension is palpable and is Whitman’s version of holy praise. Both genders are divine and enticing, driving Whitman’s religious fanaticism for everyone and anyone with whom he comes into contact. Whitman worships at the altar of the body, taken in by corporeal energy and sexual interest in all human beings.
In addition to the praise of others’ bodies, Whitman praises himself while also irreverently blaspheming God. “Song of Myself” illustrates Whitman’s belief in physicality, attempting to span the divide between poet and reader to bring both into a physical and spiritual bond with one another. This bond mirrors Whitman’s belief that spirituality and kinesthetic energy are similar, if not one and the same. This belief is evident in Whitman’s declaration that “I believe in the flesh and the appetites” and that “each part and every tag of me is a miracle” (Whitman 51). Like a personal creed, Whitman states this as an announcement of his rejection of the commonly held associations with the divine and with the body. This denial is later exemplified in his next declaration “Divine I am inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from,” clearly a jab at the Christian society in which he lived, and an evident form of sacrilege (Whitman 51). His personal jests at normative religious beliefs of his time are both confidence boosters for Whitman as he directly defies God in his personal life, but are also affirmations of his religious connection with the human form. One of the most blasphemous lines in “Song of Myself” comes after his prior statement, in which Whitman believes that “the scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer,/This head is more than churches or bibles or creeds” (Whitman 51). Whitman is by no means applauding prayer, uplifting churches, or validating bibles, as those in his era would, but rather he is incorporating the desecration of the religious elements others hold dearest into his own personal creed. Whitman is not singing praises of God, but a song of himself.
One of the most ironic passages involving Whitman and his perception of the divine is also contained within “Song of Myself” in which he directly addresses his beliefs in God. Whitman never completely rejects God, though he may irreverently refer to Him, none of Whitman’s statements are as brazenly sacrilege as when he writes:
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.
I hear and behold God in every object, yet I understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself (Whitman 85).
Whitman is both humble and proud in his unbelief, simultaneously omniscient and unknowing. This juxtaposition in itself is a form of blaspheme, since Whitman is so wonderful that he is divine, yet he is unable to know everything, combining his human physicality with his all-encompassing identity as the American poet. This simultaneous god-and-man relationship parallels that of Jesus Christ, perhaps as an intended insinuation to further his disbelief. However, he never directly states that he is angry or doubts the existence of God, but rather that he cannot fathom God. Whitman is at peace with his own religion of the body, and because of this he will not directly stand against God, but he will not give credence to any authority over himself.
Whitman’s universal examination and personal introspection eventually fade away as Whitman ages and eventually his beliefs and hopes in mankind are etched away postbellum, leaving his true essential beliefs completely bare in his poetry. Before the emotional trauma of the war, Whitman believes that his “faith was the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,” meaning that his faith in humanity is abounding, yet his faith in the divine is lacking (Whitman 236). For a long while, Whitman worships the ideals of a perfect humanity and of the splendor of the body, but his opinions and beliefs erode as he ages. Observing life in its every facet and being, Whitman’s optimistic beliefs whittle away in “The Sleeper” as his thoughts turn from how “the universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place” to his anaphora of “I swear they are always beautiful…Peace is always beautiful… The soul is always beautiful” (Whitman 549). No longer is Whitman focused on his spirituality with the universe, but on the specific soul. In the face of death, Whitman grips the life of the soul and the importance of pursuing meaning in an attempt to find a greater force and being outside of himself.
The triumph in humanity now fading, Whitman is left with the tatters of his former principles, clinging to the last shred, and ultimately his life’s foremost belief. The final strike against his religion of the body is his experiences in the Civil War in which he becomes detached from the human form and focuses on the existential. Though Whitman may “sing of the body electric” at first, in “Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night,” he becomes isolated from his comrade’s body. Numbed from the mutilation of a dear, precious body, Whitman simply sits, “not even a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed” (Whitman 250, 438). With the death of a body, the shattering of his hope in humanity with the Civil War, Whitman’s own spiritual connection with the body, and even his nation, are utterly destroyed. Shapely bodies, beloved comrades, and his desire to embrace all humanity are replaced with visions of macabre death and despair.
All Whitman has left out of the bloody carnage and smashing of his personal hope in humanity is his belief that “great is the faith of the flush of knowledge and of the investigation of the depths of qualities and things” (Whitman 15). From the outset, through the jubilee in rejoicing in humanity, to the depths of mute, motionless despair, Whitman’s true faith is in the pursuit of wisdom. The light amidst the darkness is pure, unadulterated knowledge which transpires his love of man and his physical nature. This illumination of faith is especially prevalent in “To One Shortly To Die” in which Whitman no longer is pained by the dying or tortured by the destruction of the body, but instead sees the meaning beyond death, a meaning which he believes in more fiercely than any God or individual.
In times of greatest adversity, Walt Whitman seeks comfort in his beliefs in the strength of humanity. His passion for physicality and, later, for the pursuit of the meaning outside of God are defining traits of his poetry, transforming his ideas on sexuality and his relationship to all other people. Whitman becomes his own god through poetry and identity as the American bard, using this to pursue further knowledge and wisdom, which he sees as the ultimate goal of life. Though he never outright denies a divine power nor completely abandons his faith in humanity, Whitman’s writing and personal spirituality change throughout his lifetime as he experiences tragedy and anguish at others’ bodily harm. Death dramatically impacts his religious arrogance and is what eventually transforms Whitman’s personal beliefs to venture off into ulterior meaning and an endless divinity of the individual as embodied by their soul. Walt Whitman’s religion is the worship of the self, the body, and of a transcendent meaning, shaping his poetry, and ultimately, his purpose in living.
Source:
Whitman, Walt. Whitman: Poetry and Prose. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 1996. 565. Print.